The Hanging Garden

`In a Hanging Garden/Change the past'

They were arguing in the living-room.

`Look, if your bloody job's so precious…’

`What do you want from me?’

`You know bloody well!' 'I'm working my arse off for the three of us!' 'Don't give me that crap.’

And then they saw her. She was holding her teddy bear, Pa Broon, by one well-chewed ear. She was peering round the doorway, thumb in her mouth. They turned to her.

`What is it, sweetie?’

'I had a bad dream.’

'Come here.’

The mother crouched down, opening her arms. But the girl ran to her,father, wrapped herself around his legs.

'Come on, pet, I'll take you back to bed.’

He tucked her in, started to read her a story.

'Daddy,' she said, 'what if I fall asleep and don't wake up? Like Snow White or Sleeping Beauty?’

'Nobody sleeps forever, Sammy. All it takes to wake them up is a kiss. There's nothing the witches and evil queens can do about that.’

He kissed her forehead.

'Dead people don't wake up, 'she said, hugging Pa Broon. 'Not even when you kiss them.’

1

John Rebus kissed his daughter. `Sure you don't want a lift?’

Samantha shook her head. `I need to walk off that pizza.’

Rebus put his hands in his pockets, felt folded banknotes beneath his handkerchief. He thought of offering her some money wasn't that what fathers did? – but she'd only laugh. She was twenty-four and independent; didn't need the gesture and certainly wouldn't take the money. She'd even tried to pay for the pizza, arguing that she'd eaten half while he'd chewed on a single slice. The remains were in a box under her arm.

`Bye, Dad.’ She pecked him on the cheek.

`Next week?’

`I'll phone you. Maybe the three of us…?’

By which she meant Ned Farlowe, her boyfriend. She was walking backwards as she spoke. One final wave, and she turned away from him, head moving as she checked the evening traffic, crossing the road without looking back. But on the opposite pavement she half-turned, saw him watching her, waved her hand in acknowledgment. A young man almost collided with her. He was staring at the pavement, the thin black cord from a pair of earphones dribbling down his neck. Turn round and look at her, Rebus commanded. Isn't she incredible? But the youth kept shuffling along the pavement, oblivious to her world.

And then she'd turned a corner and was gone. Rebus could only imagine her now: making sure the pizza box was secure beneath her left arm; walking with eyes fixed firmly ahead of her; rubbing a thumb behind her right ear, which she'd recently had pierced for the third time. He knew that her nose would twitch when she thought of something funny. He knew that if she wanted to concentrate, she might tuck the corner of one jacket-lapel into her mouth. He knew that she wore a bracelet of braided leather, three silver rings, a cheap watch with black plastic strap and indigo face. He knew that the brown of her hair was its natural colour. He knew she was headed for a Guy Fawkes party, but didn't intend staying long.

He didn't know nearly enough about her, which was why he'd wanted them to meet for dinner. It had been a tortuous process: dates rejigged, last-minute cancellations. Sometimes it was her fault, more often his. Even tonight he should have been elsewhere. He ran his hands down the front of his jacket, feeling the bulge in his inside breast pocket, his own little time-bomb. Checking his watch, he saw it was nearly nine o'clock. He could drive or he could walk – he wasn't going far.

He decided to drive.

Edinburgh on firework night, leaves blown into thick lines down the pavement. One morning soon he would find himself scraping frost from his car windscreen, feeling the cold like jabs to his kidneys. The south side of the city seemed to get the first frost earlier than the north. Rebus, of course, lived and worked on the south side. After a stint in Craigmillar, he was back at St Leonard 's. He could make for there now – he was still on shift after all – but he had other plans. He passed three pubs on his way to his car. Chat at the bar, cigarettes and laughter, a fug of heat and alcohol: he knew these things better than he knew his own daughter. Two out of the three bars boasted `doormen'. They didn't seem to be called bouncers these days. They were doormen or front-of-house managers, big guys with short hair and shorter fuses. One of them wore a kilt. His face was all scar tissue and scowl, the scalp shaved to abrasion. Rebus thought his name was Wattie or Wallie. He belonged to Telford. Maybe they all did. Graffiti on the wall further along: Won't Anyone Help? Three words spreading across the city.

Rebus parked around the corner from Flint Street and started walking. The street was in darkness at ground level, except for a cafe and amusement arcade. There was one lamppost, its bulb dead. The council had been asked by police not to replace it in a hurry – the surveillance needed all the help it could get. A few lights were shining in the tenement flats. There were three cars parked kerbside, but only one of them with people in it. Rebus opened the back door and got in.

A man sat in the driver's seat, a woman next to him. They looked cold and bored. The woman was Detective Constable Siobhan Clarke, who had worked with Rebus at St Leonard 's until a recent posting to the Scottish Crime Squad. The man, a Detective Sergeant called Claverhouse, was a Crime Squad regular. They were part of a team keeping twenty-four hour tabs on Tommy Telford and all his deeds. Their slumped shoulders and pale faces bespoke not only tedium but the sure knowledge that surveillance was futile.

It was futile because Telford owned the street. Nobody parked here without him knowing who and why. The other two cars parked just now were Range Rovers belonging to Telford 's gang. Anything but a Range Rover stuck out. The Crime Squad had a specially adapted van which they usually used for surveillance, but that wouldn't work in Flint Street. Any van parked here for longer than five minutes received close and personal attention from a couple of Telford 's men. They were trained to be courteous and menacing at the same time.

`Undercover bloody surveillance,' Claverhouse growled. `Only we're not undercover and there's nothing to survey.’

He tore at a Snickers wrapper with his teeth and offered the first bite to Siobhan Clarke, who shook her head.

`Shame about those flats,' she said, peering up through the windscreen. `They'd be perfect.’

`Except Telford owns them all,' Claverhouse said through a mouthful of chocolate.

`Are they all occupied?’ Rebus asked. He'd been in the car a minute and already his toes were cold.

`Some of them are empty,' Clarke said. ` Telford uses them for storage.’

`But every bugger in and out of the main door gets spotted,' Claverhouse added. `We've had meter readers and plumbers try to wangle their way in.’

`Who was acting the plumber?’ Rebus asked.

'Ormiston. Why?’

Rebus shrugged. `Just need someone to fix a tap in my bathroom.’

Claverhouse smiled. He was tall and skinny, with huge dark bags under his eyes and thinning fair hair. Slow-moving and slow talking, people often underestimated him. Those who did sometimes discovered that his nickname of `Bloody' Claverhouse was merited.

Clarke checked her watch. `Ninety minutes till the changeover.’

`You could do with the heating on,' Rebus offered. Claverhouse turned in his seat.

`That's what I keep telling her, but she won't have it.’

`Why not?’

He caught Clarke's eyes in the rearview. She was smiling.

`Because,' Claverhouse said, `it means running the engine, and running the engine when we're not going anywhere is wasteful. Global warming or something.’

`It's true,' Clarke said.

Rebus winked at her reflection. It looked like she'd been accepted by Claverhouse, which meant acceptance by the whole team at Fettes. Rebus, the perennial outsider, envied her the ability to conform.

`Bloody useless anyway,' Claverhouse continued. `The bugger knows we're here. The van was blown after twenty minutes, the plumber routine didn't even get Ormiston over the threshhold, and now here we are, the only sods on the whole street. We couldn't blend in less if we were doing panto.’

`Visible presence as a deterrent,' Rebus said.

`Aye, right, a few more nights of this and I'm sure Tommy'll be back on the straight and narrow.’

Claverhouse shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. `Any word of Candice?’

Sammy had asked her father the same thing. Rebus shook his head.

`You still think Taravicz snatched her? No chance she did a runner?’

Rebus snorted.

`Just because you want it to be them doesn't mean it was. My advice: leave it to us. Forget about her. You've got that Adolf thing to keep you busy.’

`Don't remind me.’

`Did you ever track down Colquhoun?’

`Sudden holiday. His office got a doctor's line.’

`I think we did for him.’

Rebus realised one of his hands was caressing his breast pocket. `So is Telford in the cafe or what?’

`Went in about an hour ago,' Clarke said. `There's a room at the back, he uses that. He seems to like the arcade, too. Those games where you sit on a motorbike and do the circuit.’

`We need someone on the inside,' Claverhouse said. `Either that or wire the place.’

`We couldn't even get a plumber in there,' Rebus said. `You think someone with a fistful of radio mikes is going to fare any better?’

`Couldn't do any worse.’ Claverhouse switched on the radio, seeking music.

`Please,' Clarke pleaded, `no country and western.’

Rebus stared out at the cafe. It was well-lit with a net curtain covering the bottom half of its window. On the top half was written `Big Bites For Small Change'. There was a menu taped to the window, and a sandwich board on the pavement outside, which gave the cafe's hours as 6.30 a.m. – 8.30 p.m. The place should have been closed for an hour.

`How are his licences?’

`He has lawyers,' Clarke said.

`First thing we tried,' Claverhouse added. `He's applied for a latenight extension. I can't see the neighbours complaining.’

`Well,' Rebus said, `much as I'd love to sit around here chatting…’

`End of liaison?’ Clarke asked. She was keeping her humour, but Rebus could see she was tired. Disrupted sleep pattern, body chill, plus the boredom of a surveillance you know is going nowhere. It was never easy partnering Claverhouse: no great fund of stories, just constant reminding that they had to do everything `the right way', meaning by the book.

`Do us a favour,' Claverhouse said.

`What?’

`There's a chippy across from the Odeon.’

`What do you want?’

`Just a poke of chips.’

'Siobhan?’

`Irn-Bru.’

`Oh, and John?’

Claverhouse added as Rebus stepped out of the car. `Ask them for a hot-water bottle while you're at it.’

A car turned into the street, speeding up then screeching to a halt outside the cafe. The back door nearest the kerb opened, but nobody got out. The car accelerated away, door still hanging open, but there was something on the pavement now, something crawling, trying to push itself upright.

`Get after them!' Rebus shouted. Claverhouse had already turned the ignition, slammed the gear-shift into first. Clarke was on the radio as the car pulled away. As Rebus crossed the street, the.man got to his feet. He stood with one hand against the cafe window, the other held to his head. As Rebus approached, the man seemed to sense his presence, staggered away from the cafe into the road.

`Christ!' he yelled. `Help me!' He fell to his knees again, both hands scrabbling at his scalp. His face was a mask of blood. Rebus crouched in front of him.

`We'll get you an ambulance,' he said. A crowd had gathered at the window of the cafe. The door had been pulled open, and two young men were watching, like they were onlookers at a piece of street theatre. Rebus recognised them: Kenny Houston and PrettyBoy. `Don't just stand there!' he yelled. Houston looked to PrettyBoy, but Pretty-Boy wasn't moving. Rebus took out his mobile, called in the emergency, his eyes fixing on Pretty-Boy: black wavy hair, eyeliner. Black leather jacket, black polo-neck, black jeans. Stones: `Paint it Black'. But the face chalk-white, like it had been powdered. Rebus walked up to the door. Behind him, the man was beginning to wail, a roar of pain echoing into the night sky.

`We don't know him,' Pretty-Boy said.

`I didn't ask if you knew him, I asked for help.’

Pretty-Boy didn't blink. `The magic word.’

Rebus got right up into his face. Pretty-Boy smiled and nodded towards Houston, who went to fetch towels.

Most of the customers had returned to their tables. One was studying the bloody palmprint on the window. Rebus saw another group of people, watching from the doorway of a room to the back of the cafe. At their centre stood Tommy Telford: tall, shoulders straight, legs apart. He looked almost soldierly.

`I thought you took care of your lads, Tommy!' Rebus called to him. Telford looked straight through him, then turned back into the room. The door closed. More screams from outside. Rebus grabbed the dishtowels from Houston and ran. The bleeder was on his feet again, weaving like a boxer in defeat.

`Take your hands down for a sec.’

The man lifted both hands from his matted hair, and Rebus saw a section of scalp rise with them, like it was attached to the skull by a hinge. A thin jet of blood hit Rebus in the face. He turned away and felt it against his ear, his neck. Blindly he stuck the towel on to the man's head.

`Hold this.’

Rebus grabbing the hands, forcing them on to the towel. Headlights: the unmarked police car. Claverhouse had his window down.

`Lost them in Causewayside. Stolen car, I'll bet. They'll be hoofing it.’

`We need to get this one to Emergency.’

Rebus pulled open the back door. Clarke had found a box of paper hankies and was pulling out a wad.

`I think he's beyond Kleenex,' Rebus said as she handed them over.

`They're for you,' she said.

2

It was a three-minute drive to the Royal Infirmary. Accident amp; Emergency was gearing up for firework casualties. Rebus went to the toilets, stripped, and rinsed himself off as best he could. His shirt was damp and cold to the touch. A line of blood had dried down the front of his chest. He turned to look in the mirror, saw more blood on his back. He had wet a clump of blue paper towels. There was a change of clothes in his car, but his car was back near Flint Street. The door of the toilets opened and Claverhouse came in.

`Best I could do,' he said, holding out a black t-shirt. There was a garish print on the front, a zombie with demon's eyes, wielding a scythe. `Belongs to one of the junior doctors, made me promise to get it back to him.’

Rebus dried himself off with another wad of towels. He asked Claverhouse how he looked.

`There's still some on your brow.’

Claverhouse wiped the bits Rebus had missed.

`How is he?’ Rebus asked.

`They reckon he'll be okay, if he doesn't get an infection on the brain.’

`What do you think?’

`Message to Tommy from Big Ger. ’

`Is he one of Tommy's men?’

`He's not saying.’

`So what's his story?’

`Fell down a flight of steps, cracked his head at the bottom.’

`And the drop-off?’

`Says he can't remember.’

Claverhouse paused. `Eh, John…?’

`What?’

`One of the nurses wanted me to ask you something.’

His tone told Rebus all he needed to know. `AIDS test?’

`They just wondered.’

Rebus thought about it. Blood in his eyes, his ears, running down his neck. He looked himself over: no scratches or cuts. `Let's wait and see,' he said.

`Maybe we should pull the surveillance,' Claverhouse said, `leave them to get on with it.’

`And have a fleet of ambulances standing by to pick up the bodies?’

Claverhouse snorted. `Is this sort of thing Big Ger's style?’

`Very much so,' Rebus said, reaching for his jacket.

`But not that nightclub stabbing?’

`No.’

Claverhouse started laughing, but there was no humour to the sound. He rubbed his eyes. `Never got those chips, did we? Christ, I could use a drink.’

Rebus reached into his jacket for the quarter-bottle of Bell 's.

Claverhouse didn't seem surprised as he broke the seal. He took a gulp, chased it down with another, and handed the bottle back. `Just what the doctor ordered.’

Rebus started screwing the top back on.

`Not having one?’

`I'm on the wagon.’ Rebus rubbed a thumb over the label.

`Since when?’

`The summer.’

`So why carry a bottle around?’

Rebus looked at it. `Because that's not what it is.’

Claverhouse looked puzzled. `Then what is it?’

`A bomb.’

Rebus tucked the bottle back into his pocket. `A little suicide bomb.’

They walked back to A amp;E. Siobhan Clarke was waiting for them outside a closed door.

`They've had to sedate him,' she said. `He was up on his feet again, reeling all over the place.’

She pointed to marks on the floor airbrushed blood, smudged by footprints.

`Do we have a name?’

`He's not offered one. Nothing in his pockets to identify him. Over two hundred in cash, so we can rule out a mugging. What do you reckon for a weapon? Hammer?’

Rebus shrugged. `A hammer would dent the skull. That flap looked too neat. I think they went for him with a cleaver.’

`Or a machete,' Claverhouse added. `Something like that.’

Clarke stared at him. `I smell whisky.’

Claverhouse put a finger to his lips.

`Anything else?’ Rebus asked. It was Clarke's turn to shrug.

`Just one observation.’

`What's that?’

`I like the t-shirt.’

Claverhouse put money in the machine, got out three coffees. He'd called his office, told them the surveillance was suspended. Orders now were to stay at the hospital, see if the victim would say anything. The very least they wanted was an ID. Claverhouse handed a coffee to Rebus.

`White, no sugar.’

Rebus took the coffee with one hand. In the other he held a polythene laundry-bag, inside which was his shirt. He'd have a go at cleaning it. It was a good shirt.

`You know, John,' Claverhouse said, `there's no point you hanging around.’

Rebus knew. His flat was a short walk away across The Meadows. His large, empty flat. There were students through the wall. They played music a lot, stuff he didn't recognise.

`You know Telford 's gang,' Rebus said. `Didn't you recognise the face?’

Claverhouse shrugged. `I thought he looked a bit like Danny Simpson.’

`But you're not sure?’

`If it's Danny, a name's about all we can hope to get out of him. Telford picks his boys with care.’

Clarke came towards them along the corridor. She took the coffee from Claverhouse.

`It's Danny Simpson,' she confirmed. `I just got another look, now the blood's been cleaned off.’

She took a swallow of coffee, frowned. `Where's the sugar?’

`You're sweet enough already,' Claverhouse told her.

`Why did they pick on Simpson?’ Rebus asked.

`Wrong place, wrong time?’

Claverhouse suggested.

`Plus he's pretty low down the pecking order,' Clarke added, `making it a gentle hint.’

Rebus looked at her. Short dark hair, shrewd face with a gleam to the eyes. He knew she worked well with suspects, kept them calm, listened carefully. Good on the street, too: fast on her feet as well as in her head.

`Like I say, John,' Claverhouse said, finishing his coffee, `any time you want to head off…’

Rebus looked up and down the empty corridor. `Am I in the way or something?’

`It's not that. But your job's liaison – period. I know the way you work: you get attached to cases, maybe even overattached. Look at Candice. I'm just saying…’

`You're saying, don't butt in?’

Colour rose to Rebus's cheeks: Look at Candice.

`I'm saying it's our case, not yours. That's all.’

Rebus's eyes narrowed. `I don't get it.’

Clarke stepped in. `John, I think all he means is '

`Whoah! It's okay, Siobhan. Let the man speak for himself.’

Claverhouse sighed, screwed up his empty cup and looked around for a bin. `John, investigating Telford means keeping half an eye on Big Ger Cafferty and his crew.’

`And?’

Claverhouse stared at him. `Okay, you want it spelling out? You went to Barlinnie yesterday – news travels in our business. You met Cafferty. The two of you had a chinwag.’

`He asked me to go,' Rebus lied.

Claverhouse held up his hands. `Fact is, as you've just said, he asked you and you went.’

Claverhouse shrugged.

`Are you saying I'm in his pocket?’

Rebus's voice had risen.

`Boys, boys,' Clarke said.

The doors at the end of the corridor had swung open. A young man in dark business suit, briefcase swinging, was coming towards the drinks machine. He was humming some tune. He stopped humming as he reached them, put down his case and searched his pockets for change. He smiled when he looked at them.

`Good evening.’

Early-thirties, black hair slicked back from his forehead. One kisscurl looped down between his eyebrows.

`Anyone got change of a pound?’

They looked in their pockets, couldn't find enough coins.

`Never mind.’

Though the machine was flashing EXACT MONEY ONLY he stuck in the pound coin and selected tea, black, no sugar. He stooped down to retrieve the cup, but didn't seem in a hurry to leave.

`You're police officers,' he said. His voice was a drawl, slightly nasal: Scottish upper-class. He smiled. `I don't think I know any of you professionally, but one can always tell.’

`And you're a lawyer,' Rebus guessed. The man bowed his head in acknowledgement. `Here to represent the interests of a certain Mr Thomas Telford.’

`I'm Daniel Simpson's legal advisor.’

`Which adds up to the same thing.’

`I believe Daniel's just been admitted.’

The man blew on his tea, sipped it.

`Who told you he was here?’

`Again, I don't believe that's any of your business, Detective…?’

`DI Rebus.’

The man transferred his cup to his left hand so he could hold out his right. `Charles Groal.’

He glanced at Rebus's tshirt. `Is that what you call "plain clothes", Inspector?’

Claverhouse and Clarke introduced themselves in turn. Groal made great show of handing out business cards.

`I take it,' he said, `you're loitering here in the hope of interviewing my client?’

`That's right,' Claverhouse said.

`Might I ask why, D S Claverhouse? Or should I address that question to your superior?’

`He's not my -' Claverhouse caught Rebus's look.

Groal raised an eyebrow. `Not your superior? And yet he manifestly is, being an Inspector to your Sergeant.’

He looked towards the ceiling, tapped a finger against his cup. `You're not strictly colleagues,' he said at last, bringing his gaze back down to focus on Claverhouse.

'DS Claverhouse and myself are attached to the Scottish Crime Squad,' Clarke said.

`And Inspector Rebus isn't,' Groal observed. `Fascinating.’

`I'm at St Leonard 's.’

`Then this is quite rightly part of your division. But as for the Crime Squad…’

`We just want to know what happened,' Rebus went on.

`A fall of some kind, wasn't it? How is he, by the way?’

`Nice of you to show concern,' Claverhouse muttered.

`He's unconscious,' Clarke said.

`And likely to be in an operating theatre fairly soon. Or will they want to X-ray him first? I'm not very up on the procedures.’

`You could always ask a nurse,' Claverhouse said.

`DS Claverhouse, I detect a certain hostility.’

`Just his normal tone,' Rebus said. `Look, you're here to make sure Danny Simpson keeps his trap shut. We're here to listen to whatever bunch of shite the two of you eventually concoct for our delectation. I think that's a pretty fair summary, don't you?’

Groal cocked his head slightly to one side. `I've heard about you, Inspector. Occasionally stories can become exaggerated but not, I'm pleased to say, in your case.’

`He's a living legend,' Clarke offered. Rebus snorted and headed back into A amp;E.

There was a woolly-suit in there, seated on a chair, his cap on his lap and a paperback book resting on the cap. Rebus had seen him half an hour before. The constable was sitting outside a room with its door closed tight. Quiet voices came from the other side. The woolly-suit was called Redpath and he worked out of St Leonard 's. He'd been in the force a bit under a year. Graduate recruit. They called him `The Professor'. He was tall and spotty and had a shy look about him. He closed the book as Rebus approached, but kept a finger in his page.

`Science fiction,' he explained. `Always thought I'd grow out of it.’

`There are a lot of things we don't grow out of, son. What's it about?’

`The usual: threats to the stability of the time continuum, parallel universes.’

Redpath looked up. `What do you think, of parallel universes, sir?’

Rebus nodded towards the door. `Who's in there?’

`Hit and run.’

`Bad?.’

The Professor shrugged. `Where did it happen?’

`Top of Minto Street.’

`Did you get the car?’

Redpath shook his head. `Waiting to see if she can tell us anything. What about you, sir?’

`Similar story, son. Parallel universe, you could call it.’

Siobhan Clarke appeared, nursing a fresh cup of coffee. She nodded a greeting towards Redpath, who stood up: a courtesy which gained him a sly smile.

` Telford doesn't want Danny talking,' she said to Rebus.

`Obviously.’

`And meantime he'll want to even the score.’

`Definitely.’

She caught Rebus's eyes. `I thought he was a bit out of order back there.’

Meaning Claverhouse, but not wanting to name names in front of a uniform.

Rebus nodded. `Thanks.’

Meaning: you did right not to say as much at the time. Claverhouse and Clarke were partners now. It wouldn't do for her to upset him.

A door slid open and a doctor appeared. She was young, and looked exhausted. Behind her in the room, Rebus could see a bed, a figure on the bed, staff milling around the various machines. Then the door slid closed.

`We're going to do a brain scan,' the doctor was telling Redpath. `Have you contacted her family?’

`I don't have a name.’

`Her effects are inside.’

The doctor slid open the door again and walked in. There was clothing folded on a chair, a bag beneath it. As the doctor pulled out the bag, Rebus saw something. A flat white cardboard box.

A white cardboard pizza box. Clothes: black denims, black bra, red satin shirt. A black duffel-coat.

`John?’

And black shoes with two-inch heels, square-toed, new-looking except for the scuff marks, like they'd been dragged along the road.

He was in the room now. They had a mask over her face, feeding her oxygen. Her forehead was cut and bruised, the hair pushed away from it. Her fingers were blistered, the palms scraped raw. The bed she lay on wasn't really a bed but a wide steel trolley.

`Excuse me, sir, you shouldn't be in here.’

`What's wrong?’

`It's this gentleman -' `John? John, what is it?’

Her earrings had been removed. Three tiny pin-pricks, one of them redder than its neighbours. The face above the sheet: puffy blackened eyes, a broken nose, abrasions on both cheeks. Split lip, a graze on the chin, eyelids which didn't even flutter. He saw a hit and run victim. And beneath it all, he saw his daughter.

And he screamed.

Clarke and Redpath had to drag him out, helped by Claverhouse who'd heard the noise.

`Leave the door open! I'll kill you if you close that door!' They tried to sit him down. Redpath rescued his book from the chair. Rebus tore it from him and threw it down the hall.

`How could you read a fucking book?’ he spat. `That's Sammy in there! And you're out here reading a book!' Clarke's cup of coffee had been kicked over, the floor slippy, Redpath going down as Rebus pushed at him.

`Can you jam that door open?’ Claverhouse was asking the doctor. `And what about a sedative?’

Rebus was clawing his hands through his hair, bawling dry-eyed, his voice hoarse and uncomprehending. Staring down at himself, he saw the ludicrous t-shirt and knew that's what he'd take away from this night: the image of an Iron Maiden t-shirt and its grinning bright-eyed demon. He hauled off his jacket and started tearing at the shirt.

She was behind that door, he thought, and I was out here chatting as casual as you like. She'd been in there all the time he'd been here. Two things clicked: a hit and run; the car speeding away from Flint Street.

He grabbed at Redpath. `Top of Minto Street. You're sure?’

`What?’

'Sammy… top of Minto Street?’

Redpath nodded. Clarke knew straight away what Rebus was thinking.

`I don't think so, John. They were headed the opposite way.’

`Could have doubled back.’

Claverhouse had caught some of the exchange. `I just got off the phone. The guys who did Danny Simpson, we picked up the car. White Escort abandoned in Argyle Place.’

Rebus looked at Redpath. `White Escort?’

Redpath was shaking his head. `Witnesses say dark-coloured.’

Rebus turned to the wall, stood there with his palms pressed to it. Staring at the paintwork, it was like he could see inside the paint.

Claverhouse put a hand on his shoulder. `John, I'm sure she's going to be fine. The doctor's gone to fetch you a couple of tablets, but meantime what about one of these?’

Claverhouse with Rebus's jacket folded in the crook of his arm, the quarter-bottle in his hand.

The little suicide bomb.

He took the bottle from Claverhouse. Unscrewed its top, his eyes on the open doorway. Lifted the bottle to his lips.

Drank.